I always wanted to make
  everyone laugh out loud.
  I'd slip and fall down on
  purpose so they'd love me.

I just want some time away
from war and anger in me.
It feels like WW1 in trenches
across no man's land forever
bleeding and crying
going mad in moments
rats wake me chewing
on me and I begin to
just let it go as normal.
I'm no longer myself.

We shake our fists at a world
  that's passed us by and leaves
  us wanting more with old skin
  and old ideas and no relevance.

I still see you in the garden
strong and bent over tearing
weeds from the fragile flowers
keeping our children safe.
We're Jews in Berlin in 1938.
A dragon's breath is on our necks.
A crooked cross beckons to nail
us to some wooden hatred.

Walked the dogs across the bay from Gatsby's place.
      Dark as sin tonight. Rumor is Gatsby was shot dead by
      a jealous husband. The party's moved on and taken
      the lights and tents and champagne and laughter.
      Nothing is ever one of a kind. We're interchangeable.
      Another rich Gatsby a mile away with the right view.

They were bigger than life
  and moved mountains to bend
  time and possibility for a
  future we never imagined.
  They're long gone but we
  still know e=mc2. We all
  orbit around sun and God
  might or might not be dead.

You haunt my dreams at night.
You hide in mirrors and corners
while I go from here to there.
We were lovers and never were.
You ride cold air up my back
whispering until I sleep with you.

I longed for you in your beauty
and fetching curves and promise
of travels to Mars and the moon.
You sit quiet but guarantee a riot.

It was a place where I escaped
my self pity and guilt and breathed
ocean air and entombed my body
in yours and slept at peace finally.
You were in all men's dreams,
the centerfold in the magazines.

Seagulls crying over who knows what
   riding ocean breezes we'd all die for.
   We fight drunk in our room, a prelude
   to ******* on the sheets with anchors.
   I hear the 9th symphony when we mend.
   We lie as one and hear seagulls laugh.

The clock scratches its way to 11 pm.
I'm deep in my cups and celebrate.
I'll wander into bed and dream of the
lovers and enemies I slayed in their time.

God help me in these godless times.
A black sabbath, corrupted holiness
inhabits our hearts and souls.
Sulfur from Satan delivers his kiss.

New York Times said it.
  God is dead. Heavens empty.
  Hell is cold ash.
  The devil's in the details.
  Heaven will be Timeshares.
  Hell will be for Geologists.

New York Times said it.
  God is dead. Heaven's empty.
  Hell is cold ash.
  The devil's in the details.
  Heaven will be Timeshares.
  Hell will be for Geologists.

Do I bend my knee at your altar?
You are a God to print my poetry?
I stand in my familiar shadow and
let our alphabet fall where it will.

Lawyers always get paid up front.
  Victims are buried, killers in jail.
  Plea deal for living, prayers for dead.
  Children offered as sacrifices to laws.
  In cold light of day sins are laid bare.
  We dark souls pray to godless heavens.

I had a marble that
looked like the earth
I kept in my pocket.
It was never worth
spit except I knew
how God must fear
the Earth in his jeans.
Worn pockets tear
we roll out of sight.
He panics it's gone
lost in a bang we're
unexpectedly done.

We forgive you for our sins.
   If we never lived in your world
   with temptations forbidden we'd
   never suffer birth and death.
   You created suffering for laughs.
   Some blow their brains out instead
   of living this boring day to day.
   You must be pulling wings off fly's.

I see him in my dreams.
He's not an old god on a throne.
He's an eye in my mind's eye.
I see him as he sees me and
His creation vast and alone
wanting to understand what's
behind the great curtain of OZ.
He died and we're his dreams.

He works in a toll booth taking cash
and lifts a gate to let you pass.
God's a librarian lending knowledge.
He's president of an Ivy League college.
He sells pieces of heaven on corners to smoke.
She rents herself out for a rub and a stroke.

I checked out last week without notice.
I took what I needed and disappeared,
family and friends good as dead to me.
I followed the tracks to horizons. I met
other lost souls just can't take anymore.
We live under bridges and sleep in
fields in good weather. We help fellow
travelers and share when we can.
We died killing others.
They were the enemy.
Just not mine.
I'm gone.

I'll drink your poison tonight.
It was not your fault but mine.
Forgive me but you can't because
you don't know how. Maybe in my
mourning I'll nail me to your cross
and die for you one final time.

Fragile Genius
He died undiscovered
by his own hand at 26.
He left 3 albums to the world.
It was as if Nick Drake
simply faded away,
a victim not of excess,
but of some profound,
deep-seated unhappiness.
Like Vincent the painter
he rose from his own ashes
to set the music world on fire.

Crown of bobby pins and bandana,
   she hoists a beer bottle scepter,
   dime store paste royal necklace,
   moth holed sweater Queen's cape,
   her well worn lawn chair throne.
   She keeps watch from  her tower,
   surveys her realm on Alcott Lane.
   Nothing escapes the queen's watch.

I hope we did you proud.
  Mike died young of cirrhosis
  I live on in alcoholic haze
  no connection with the living
  just a **** or two and meet
  another **** in some dive bar
  where your ghost cheers for
  conquests without a heart.

Poison flows from the grapes of wrath.
   It spoils the soil with its honest path.
   You're hated for your poverty and bad luck.
   You'll do anything for a shot and a buck.
   Anything for a crust of bread and a beer.
   Sleep with me. Keep me warm. Hold me near.

We're born into a tiny slice of history.
    Dropped into roles in small orbits around
    each other and we're caught and spin in
    our gravity falling in and out of Love.

I was always second string.
Red shirt dummy for practice
in summers of Spartans glory.
Bacevich was a legend coach.
I shone one hot August day
hungover and craving nicotine.
**** these poseurs of fame.
We scrimmaged and played
our usual parts, but I was angry.
I stopped the blockers like stone
and tore the runners down.
Over and over I was a Hero
for an afternoon. The Coach said
I'd be a Gridiron Legend.
Just for one day.

I play with your neck and pluck
your strings and make the room
dance and act fools in love and
when the noise dies I need pills
and ***** to come back to Earth.
My fingers dance in my dreams.

I thought I knew myself.
I walked into a hall of mirrors
and found me in the looking glass.
I didn't like who I saw.
I was shallow and narcissistic.
I thought I cared for others
but I only wanted to see my
kindness reflected off them.
I put change in the poor box
so the noise made me heard.
Enter Hall of Mirrors and
you can never be you again.

She seems so real and perfect
  I want to be with her forever.
  Don't take an ice pick to my brain.
  Please don't make me better. Let us
  live our wonderful life in my head.
  Why ruin true love as rare as it is?

Life's a tragedy wrapped as presents
    we take for granted like birthday cake.
    Years tick by and we blow out bigger fires.
    We know death happens, just not to us.

Another year killed in cold blood
with nothing to show for it. Tick Tock.
Maps always lead nowhere.
Directions are puzzles.
I'm 71 years old. I still have a brain
and a heart and courage. Dorothy
died awhile ago and I miss her
and her little dog too.
We laughed too loud not long ago.
She'd be 98 and giggle like a girl.

They know the finish line's in sight
  like Christmas morning running down
  the stairs to discover new treasures.
  Will they dream into another ******?
  Will the flat line alarm be their final
  farewell to a vast nothing? We'll see.

We're on the beach while
   the sun surrenders the horizon
   to the Harvest moon.
   I'm stunned by the display.
   My world is swallowed by
   saints who sin for sinners.

You seem to hate me. Have we met?
  You call me horrible names and wish
  me dead. I'm not a ****. Have we met?
  I reach out. bjdonovan50@hotmail.com
  Dare to touch my soul and talk to the
  devil you think I am. Let's be friends.

I was ****** and drunk at 3am.
My conscience called my phone.
We ****** and never answered.
I crawled back to my quiet womb
with black light and little room.
I woke in hell's fierce sunlight.

She was my most demanding.
  Claws always at my throat for
  attention. She ****** me into
  real dreams. I needed that *****.
Mother's milk and first ****
but always the final shot.

I was a hippie in 1969.
A long haired barefoot
freak with yellow stains
on my white carpenter jeans.
I had a lover like no other.
She bumped around my brain
like a pinball machine in pain.
I wonder how she's doing now.

I know I should repent but I
  gave that up long ago, like
  candy for Lent. Mortal
  sins have been my savior.
We joined ***** drunk and
fell in love for a week or 2.

When did my childhood
  disappear? When did I
  really notice girls and
  dress for their glances?

  When did we tie us in knots
  and end with child, married
  and I was crying, homesick
  not quite ready for this?

  At the drive in movie you
  dried my tears. We carried
  on to our cliched future. We
  split not knowing the why.

  Years have let it all play out.
  Many different players yet so
  alike. The parts don't change.
  I'm homesick for everything.

I'm always hoping
without an ounce of it.
I'm always in love with
no waiting hearts.
I beseech the Almighty
without truly believing.
I'm just a ghost. A sheet
hanging to dry in a breeze
flapping about alive like
but just full of hot air.

I wanted to make you proud.
Your first born boy namesake.
March 23,1949. You were back
from war nerves on edge and
work was scarce and you kept
exploding in rage and we all
vibrated with fear and felt
your pain and war's hell and
pitied and loved you always.
Mom closed the windows in
summer so the neighbors
wouldn't hear and we went
to our rooms and mastered
the art of disappearing.

I wake each day in a house of mirrors.
I stand inside of a different me.
I see me ******* a *****
who begs me to love her
for the kid's sake. I can't.
I want a mirror to fool me.
I see my kind friend Joe
who always saw the good
and was killed picking up
a hitchhiker after all.
I want a mirror to fool me.
I see my father still wet
behind the ears flying
a bomber in a war as a pawn
for them who don't care.
I want a mirror to fool me.
I see my cousin with ancient
broken heart, the wound
that never heals, choose
slow suicide by *****.
I want a mirror to fool me.
I see a man who doesn't
know how to love a wife
no matter how many times
he tries. He writes poems.
I want a mirror to fool me.

I wake each day in a house of mirrors.
I stand inside a different me.
I see me leaving a wife
who begs me to love her
for the kid's sake. I can't.
I want a mirror to fool me.
I see my kind friend Joe
who always saw the good
and was killed picking up
a hitchhiker after all.
I want a mirror to fool me.
I see my father still wet
behind the ears flying
a bomber in a war as a pawn
for them who don't care.
I want a mirror to fool me.
I see my cousin with ancient
broken heart, the wound
that never heals, choose
slow suicide by *****.
I want a mirror to fool me.
I see a man who doesn't
know how to love a wife
no matter how many times
he tries. He writes poems.
I want a mirror to fool him.

When you're too old for dreams
and your eyes only look back to
when anything was possible do
you go gentle or fight darkness?

Care about every ******* thing.
Feel everyone's pain.
Weep for every lost dog and cat
and wash the feet of the poor.

Live in a garret and drink
cheap wine. **** out the
window because the toilet
one floor down is busy.

Win hearts and scatter them
to the winds. Suffer alone so
the poems bleed your tears.
Speak in cryptic poet tongues.

Gather types of people together
and tell them group B hates them.
Trot to group B and say A hates you.
Tell group C they all hate you and
tell all the groups the same thing
until the rainbow catches fire.

We ***** these poems faster than HP can
handle. You need a fire hose to keep up.
We're a chatty bunch with endless sins we
need to confess into your priest hole.
We need to know our penance so we can
wipe our slates and fill them up again.

We hunger for our own kind.
    Ordinary people touch us not.
    I yearn for the broken and bent
    like me. We color outside lines.
    We are on a spectrum invented by
    some cog in the wheel of boring.